


Scratch

by flowersaretarts



Category: Vurt
Genre: Alternate Reality, Drugs, Hallucinations, Other, Surrealism, Trip - Freeform, vurt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 10:09:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4702136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersaretarts/pseuds/flowersaretarts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The origins of the vurtboy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratch

Day 26, Wednesday

“It’s time to tell how I’ve become a vurtboy. it’s too dark, too cold and my memories are the only way to bring some sense it it.

Have you heard about Vurt feathers? Yours truly was two hours after his 15th birthday when he tasted his first vurt and got hooked on the other people’s dreams. 

The blue and black feather sent me into a theatre called “Oliver’s Twister“. The name seemed attractive to me, since I am a dedicated fan of Dickens’.

It fascinated and grossed me out, and made me crave for some more. 

Theaters are interactive stories you live through, indulging yourself into every activity available to the humanity: wanking or fucking, or killing, ot torturing, or having a teaparty with the imaginary figures of your choice.

By the time I turned 21 there was nothing invented that I hadn’t tried. Except, probably, the most appalling necro stuff, which is a fucking turn off.

The vurt scenarios were made into drugs from random and selected dreamers. Some were straight ridiculous. Even porno vurt can be written like a fucking masterpice. Their stories sucked, I told myself. Their dialogues are tired and cliched. I could do better, and so I started writing and writing. And never stopped.

Feathers made me higher, vurt made me what I am now. Both literally and metaphorically. 

Day 31

“But then… Feather after feather, the more I took the more I wanted to stay in Vurt. And never ever come down back into the so-called real world. But I was weak, I had to jerk out at times, I couldn’t finish some of the games. 

I got angry at myself, searching and finding more and more vicious theatres to get into. To live through, to prove myself. To stop being a tiny asthmatic kid thrown in the corner and beaten up like a dog by his own father.

I was sucking the feathers dry. Using sucker feathers to store my own stories in.

This went on and on until there was a Jag. Jag-69. Fuck knows why they called it, maybe for it’s colour and weird spots all across.

You remember what yellow means, don’t you. Yellow means death, if you die, you die in every world, in every alternative. So you have to play, have to work the faith till the final credits roll.

And so it began. The Jaguar, the One Who Kills With One Blow, was chasing me day and night, through the trees and water, diving, scratching, tearing the flesh off my back. The pursue continued for weeks, it seemed. The wounds healed, but he won’t stop, The Fear itself. 

And then there was a wall. 

I turned around and sunk on the sand ready to be murdered, the God leapt onto my chest and I felt his fangs pierceing my flesh.   
He was drinking my blood, I was paralysed. I think, I must have done the right thing, turning around to face him, maybe that’s what saved me. 

The Jaguar-were left growling, distracted by some other victim that appeared in the theater. Was it luck or was it supposed to be… I rolled over pressing into the wall and felt that it is in fact soft like a sponge…no, liquid, thick golden-brown substance which sucked me in. I was trapped like a fly in amber. The golden-brown sipped through my pores, through every orifice available. 

No, I can’t give up now, I don’t want to die, I thought. I screamed, I roared like the damned feline just roared at me. A part of me was pushing the rest of the entity forward, making me move, go back, pull out.

This is where Vurt decided to make me a part of it, me, its biggest fanboy and devotee, I had it in me. There is no mechansim I can explain. Clueless, skinless, I was falling into the sandpit, The Jaguar God looming over me, his spotted mask blazing. 

I don’t remember how I came down.   
But my eyes were full of gold since. I had the Jaguar claw marks on my right thigh. The bastard scarcely missed my groin. I spent a day reading all I could find on Jaguars and their symbolism. One of the things about the beastly God was his ability to cross the line between the worlds and sense the forthcoming. 

But I yet had to put my new skills to test...


End file.
